


Only If for a Night

by glowstick_of_destiny



Series: Seven Devils [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-03-07 21:58:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3184670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowstick_of_destiny/pseuds/glowstick_of_destiny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why don't you ask that snitch of yours?" says Harvey. "You did save his life and all-- the guy owes you."</p><p>"That'd be kind of underhanded and manipulative, don't you think?"</p><p>"Jim Gordon, I swear to god. First you give me all this holier-than-thou bullshit about how you'll never get involved with the mob. Then, bada-bing, suddenly you're best buddies with this Cobblepot kid. And now you're worried you're gonna hurt his feelings? He's a gangster, for chrissakes, and if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were sweet on him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brainstorm

**Author's Note:**

> Trope bingo: fake relationship. Because I love that trope (fight me) and I don't think anyone's written it on here for Jim and Oswald yet?

Harvey doesn't even look up from his paperwork. Which is kind of the ultimate insult. Because this is Harvey. And paperwork. "Nope. Not a fucking chance. You're on your own for this one, Jimbo." 

"Seriously? You come with me on a suicide mission, but you're gonna sit this one out?" 

"See, that's a matter of strategy. Shooting things, you're great at. Even if the odds aren't pretty, there's a good chance we'd figure something out, and if not, at least we'd go out in a blaze of glory. But you are shit at acting and worse at lying. I know a good bet when I see one. And you, my friend, on this op, are sure as hell not one." 

"Thanks a lot, _partner._ "

"Why don't you ask that snitch of yours? You did save his life and all-- the guy owes you." 

"That'd be kind of underhanded and manipulative, don't you think?" 

That gets Harvey's attention. He slams down the stack of files he'd been working with and finally looks up at him. "Jim Gordon, I swear to god. First you give me all this holier-than-thou bullshit about how you'll never get involved with the mob. Then, bada-bing, suddenly you're best buddies with this Cobblepot kid. And now you're worried you're gonna hurt his feelings? He's a gangster, for chrissakes, and if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were sweet on him." 

.x. 

Oswald picks up on the second ring. 

"I need a favor." 

"I thought you'd never ask." 

"After I tell you, you're gonna wish I hadn't." 

"Come now. It can't be that bad." 

"I need you to pose as my lover and benefactor so that I can get into an exclusive club that’s kind of Gotham’s answer to the Moulin Rouge. But gayer.” 

“You always do get right to the point. I like that about you, James.” 

“Are you saying you’ll help?” 

“I must admit, when I said that I owed you a life-debt, I had not really expected that your conscience would allow you to cash in on a favor at all. Much less a personal, rather than business one.” 

“This _is_ a business favor!” Jim splutters. 

A long pause on the other side of the line. “Oh?” 

“I think they may be test-driving a new club drug there before they put it on the main market. If I can get in on the ground as a buyer, I may be able to trace it to the source before that happens." 

“It pains me to offer the compliment, but if it is in fact a police matter, I think that your partner may be better-suited to the task.” 

Jim sighs. 

“You already asked him.” It’s not a question. 

“Look, Harvey said I’m not a good bet on this, and honestly, he’s probably right. But this shit’s dangerous—Nygma said it’s, and I quote, ‘a kissing cousin to ecstasy, but hallucinogenic.’ The vics who’ve been dosed with it, it’s literally killed ‘em. Not exposure to the drug, but withdrawal. If this gets out to the clubs, the streets, if it’s distributed, we could be looking at another mess like the Viper bullshit a few weeks back. So if there’s anything I can do to prevent that, I need to try. I know you think you owe me, but you don’t need to do this. It’s gonna be dangerous, and I can’t even say for sure if it’ll work. But I’m going in anyway, and I could sure use your help.” 

Another pause, and Jim thinks he can hear what sounds like muffled cursing in another language—maybe German— on the other side of the line. 

"Are there any parameters?" 

“What?” 

“If you want me to pose as your lover, it should be realistic. I’m a good actor. But overstepping your boundaries is something I’d like to avoid at all costs. As friends ought to strive to do. But more specifically, in terms of the mission, if I did something you were not prepared for, your reaction could draw unwanted attention to us and entirely frustrate our plans to get close to the dealer or their chief lackeys. If I’m throwing my lot in with you, I’d like to at least ensure that we have a fighting chance in that respect.” 

Jim lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Thank you. If you’re there, there’s a chance this might actually work. I can’t promise you’ll be safe, but I can tell you I’ll do everything in my power to protect you from the moment you set foot in that club on.” 

“That’s touching. But the parameters, James? While I admit I can be quite loquacious, I wasn't enumerating upon the ways in which determining where the boundaries lie would be a useful exercise just to hear myself talk. That bit is actually quite important.” 

“Christ, I don’t know. I hadn’t gotten that far. I didn’t know if you’d help or not.” 

“Well, I will, and now you need to. Why don’t we meet to discuss those and any other important details once you’ve had a little more time to think on it, hm?” 

“Oh, ah-- all right, I guess.” 

“I’ll be in touch.” 


	2. Do Me a Favour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If you expect our pretense that I am your lover and patron to be realistic, you're going to have to appreciate the power disparity in that relationship and act accordingly. I'm paying for you company. Your principle objective is to make me happy, or you won't be paid. You're going to have to let me call the shots. 
> 
> "Now, I believe you are capable of playing that role. Reading my cues and body language is part of your training, after all, and you’ve certainly got the looks. But the rest, well. Interacting with people, much less giving them what they want— suffice it to say that you could use some work in those areas. Hence this evening." 
> 
> "I-- what? Am I supposed to be flattered or offended?" 
> 
> "Take your pick. But the fact remains that you are in sore need of practice. For starters, I'm paying for dinner, and you're going to let it go without making a scene."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Thanks for all the positive feedback on the first chapter! (Also, just to clarify, this story isn’t a sequel to the first two stories in the series. I just wanted a place to gather all the trope-bingo-related stories I wrote for the pairing. Two tropes down and several more in mind—but if you think of a trope you’d like to see, tell me in the comments and I’ll see if I can at least write a drabble for it.)
> 
> Also also - Sans Merci roughly translates as "without pity" and was meant to be a reference to the poem La Belle Dame Sans Merci,  
> (because obviously Gotham can't name their fancy restaurants after nice, normal things).

"Fuck me." Jim's staring up at the flashbulb lettering of the address Oswald gave him and there's really nothing else to say. ‘Sans Merci.’ Never mind that he's freezing and drenched from the walk in the rain from the bus stop. The restaurant's gotta be in the top five most expensive spots in Gotham. And especially now he's moved out of Barbara's clock-tower and is footing the whole bill for rent each month, he doesn't have money to throw around like that. But he'll be damned if he lets Oswald pay for him. 

He's wearing a suit, but the maître d’ still gives him a _look_ when he says he has a seven o'clock reservation. 

But the man still snaps his fingers to summon a waiter. And the waiter doesn’t waste any time judging him, just leads him through a sea of small circular tables with spotless tablecloths and expensively dressed couples seated at them. 

Oswald sees him first, and he's already standing, hands in the back of his chair, when Jim arrives at the table. 

He should probably be leading with something like, "Thanks for going along with my latest bout of insanity, it's really a huge help," or at least, "Thanks for meeting me." Maybe it's the fact that he had to take three buses across town to get here because he didn't want anyone spotting his car. Maybe the ritzy-ness reminds him of when he used to go out with Barbara. Or maybe it's just the week he's had. But what comes out is, "Cobblepot, you know I can't afford a place like this." 

"James! So glad you could make it. Do sit down." 

He sits. 

"Sorry, I--" 

"Not at all. I confess I may have known the choice of venue would not sit well with you, but allow me to explain. First of all, patrons here are paying just as much for the fine wine as for the discretion of the staff, which seemed to be an important factor for us, as well. Secondarily, this evening is practice." 

"Practice?" 

"For the main event, of course. You're a good cop, and you're good at reading people. I believe those qualities will serve you well during our operation. However, you do seem to have something of an issue with following orders. Or any variety of rules, for that matter. 

"Usually I quite like that about you. It keeps me interested. But if you expect our pretense that I am your lover and patron to be realistic, you're going to have to appreciate the power disparity in that relationship and act accordingly. I'm paying for you company. Your principle objective is to make me happy, or you won't be paid. You're going to have to let me call the shots. 

"Now, I believe you are capable of playing that role. Reading my cues and body language is part of your training, after all, and you’ve certainly got the looks. But the rest, well. Interacting with people, much less giving them what they want— suffice it to say that you could use some work in those areas. Hence this evening." 

"I-- what? Am I supposed to be flattered or offended?" 

"Take your pick. But the fact remains that you are in sore need of practice. 

“For starters, I'm paying for dinner, and you're going to let it go without making a scene." 

"No, I can't let you--" 

"Let me have this-- some reassurance that you probably won't get us both killed with your bullheadedness. I pay for dinner, and I get a test run to make sure that things will go smoothly. Now, you had some information about the potential marks and logistics, did you not?" 

Jim grits his teeth. This place doesn't look like they would take kindly to him flipping the table, and besides, the repairs would likely cost more than he makes in a month. 

"Yeah, I do. But discrete staff or not, this information is for your ears only." He motions for Oswald to lean forward. 

Some emotion he can't quite read crosses Oswald's face, a flash and then it's gone. And then he's leaning across the table towards him and Jim's leaning forward to meet him until his lips are a hairs breath away from Oswald's ear. 

"Funny thing about pretending," he whispers, "is your act's only gotta have the important bits in place for the audience to buy it. Like right now," he brings his right hand up to rest on the back of Oswald's neck, his fingers tangling in his short hair, "People nearby think I'm whispering sweet nothings in your ear. Would never guess I'm reminding you that just because I've gotta play nice for a night doesn't mean you get a free pass to be a dick. I know you like winding me up. And I'm sure it's like a goddamn wet dream that you get to have a night where you can throw all your barbs at me and know I won't throw you into a wall. But if you try that, just remember there won't be anything holding me back from beating the shit out of you the next day. Understand?" 

An amused huff from Oswald. "Perhaps you won't need as much work as I anticipated." 

" _Do you understand me?_ " Jim growls, tugging Oswald's head back for emphasis. 

Oswald inhales sharply. "Perfectly." He pauses, possibly because he's realized he sounds a bit out of breath. "Now, the details?" 

"Club's only got one proper entrance. You've gotta be on the list to get in, but that's already taken care of. 'Oswald Cobblepot and guest.' Stage area, some tables, three bars, private booths, and a few rooms you can reserve. Valet parking and a by-the-hour hotel upstairs. 'Course, you can get to both without going outside. Discretion's kind of a big deal. 

"You got something important to tell me or shit's too much and you need a breather, just haul me into a private booth. They're soundproof. Doubt they had intel-trading in mind when they added that touch, though. 

"Place like this, you got two types of guys. Guys with a date from outside, and guys on their own, trying to choose one of the boys who work for the club or just there for the show. Our perp's not gonna have a date. And he's gonna be much more interested in chatting up other patrons than watching the boys or the show, so he should be easy to spot. He's not gonna have to hide, either, 'cause management doesn't care if there's a drug deal happening two seats away as long as they get a cut. 

“You're gonna be the one making the deal, if you're game. Can't have anyone staring at my ugly mug too long or someone's gonna recognize me. Anyone asks, one of us says, yeah, I'm a dead ringer for Gordon, let 'em draw their own conclusions about that. 

“We got a story why you're looking for drugs. You stick to it and you don't fucking embellish. Guys try to get fancy, they get caught. 

“You like me, but I want a raise, a big one, or I'm out. That doesn't sit well with you, 'cause you feel like you've lost control of me. Trouble is, I got wise to some sensitive information. You can't throw me out or I'll blackmail you, and you can't kill me or you'll get blacklisted from clubs like this one. So you're looking for something that'll make me stay and keep my damn mouth shut. You heard they've got something can help with that. And the situation you're in, you're willing to pay a pretty penny for it if it delivers. Think you can handle that?" 

Jim is still close enough that he can look down and see Oswald's pulse thrumming in his neck. Fast, unusually fast, considering they're talking logistics and he's not even pushing him up against a wall or something right now. Which is when he remembers he still has his hand in Oswald's hair. Right. Well, chalk it up to good acting. 

"I think I'm equal I the task, yes." 

"Good."Jim let's his hand fall, draws back to his own side of the table. "Now, I was promised some ungodly expensive food I'm not allowed to pay for." 

Oswald smiles at that. Not a smirk, a proper smile. 

Jim finds himself smiling back. 

.x. 

Jim's pretty sure he's making a downright indecent face around his first bite of filet mignon. He doesn't care. It's been ages since he's had a meal that wasn't cold takeout or street food and fuck if he's ever had steak quite this good. 

Oswald clears his throat. "Should I leave you alone with that?" 

"Don't worry. Come Friday, I'll only have eyes for you." 

"Speaking of that, have you given any thought to the parameters for the evening?" 

"No fucking." Jim takes a large swig of wine. Something tells him draining his glass is still not going to prepare him for this conversation. 

"Are you considering oral sex to be under the purview of 'fucking'?" 

Jim nearly chokes on his Cabernet Sauvignon. 

"Yeah, yeah I am." 

"And?" 

"And what?" 

"And what are your other conditions?" 

"What else so you want me to say? That seemed like the most important thing. That's how I feel about it. Moving on." 

"Kissing?" 

"Fine." 

"With tongue?" 

"Sure, yeah. Fine." 

"Touching above the waist?" 

"Fine." 

"Anything that could result in a visible mark? One that might show the next day at work?" 

"Are you going to ask me about every single possible sexual act? Because I was looking forward to some normal conversation with my steak." 

Oswald sighs. "It's not really proper form to say, 'yes, not this, but everything else is on the table.' So much ambiguity remains, things you may not have thought of that could either be within reason or entirely off limits. I'm not a mind-reader, James." 

"So that's a yes." 

"Unless you want to speed up that process by telling me so I don't have to ask." 

"Shouldn't I be asking you the same questions?" 

"As a matter of course, yes, although I doubt you will need to pose nearly as many questions." 

"Ok, so what are your limits, then?" 

“Everything you’ve consented to so far is also on the table for me. Biting or sucking— that is to say, actions that could leave a bruise—well. My line of business doesn’t really allow me to have any suspicious marks of that variety that would be visible if I wore a suit. I’m sure you understand. So either take care not to leave any evidence, or focus on my collarbone instead, hm?”

Jim swallows. “Yeah, sure thing.” 

“You’ve not said how you feel about being on the receiving end of that sort of attention. The details of my cover story suggest I am a bit possessive; it follows, then, that I might be interested in marking you as my own.” 

And there goes Jim's pulse, traitorous thing it is. He thanks fuck he's no longer close enough for Oswald to notice. "No marks above the collar. Harvey would put two and two together and the bastard would never let me live that down.” 

Oswald smiles, amused. Jim’s eyes flick to his mouth, and unbidden, the image of those lips on the side of his neck, his collarbone fills his mind. He mentally scrambles to replace the image with something, anything else before any other parts of his anatomy decide to take interest, as well. 

He takes another gulp of wine. 

“Touching below the waist?” Oswald asks, expression still one of polite interest. “Is that strictly off-limits?” 

"No," Jim says before he can stop himself. "Well. Hips, thighs, ass. Those are fine. Hands anywhere near my dick are not." 

"Fair enough. Please extend those parameters to me, as well. Now, the next step--" 

"Jesus fuck, there's more?" 

"A few more things to take care of, but then I promise you we can get back to whatever you think constitutes normal conversation. Sports? The social life you and I are both too busy to have? I wouldn't know. It's not as if you and I are in the habit of having long chats." Oswald smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. And Jim doesn't miss the undercurrent of bitterness in his words. 

"Yeah, well that's what happens when you forge relationships for their usefulness, not for having someone to spend Sundays in the park with. Because that's what this is. You say we're friends, but that's a formality, 'cause the truth's a little too vulgar for you and your nice suits. I'm useful. Having an in in the GCPD is useful to you." 

"That's not fair, James--" 

"Oh yeah? Welcome to Gotham. Look me in the eyes and tell me you'd still be here if you didn't owe me your life." 

"You wouldn't believe me if I did." 

"You know what, you're right. That sound like a good basis for friendship to you?" 

"It sounds like two people who aren't particularly good at trusting others." 

"You got a clever answer for everything, don't you? Tell me this, then: where's that leave us?" 

"I don't know." 

Jim takes a breath, breathes out slow through his nose. One of the things Google had told him was a good idea when he was trying to stop himself from being a complete fucking idiot. 

When he'd woken up face pressed to the carpet, whole goddamn efficiency apartment stinking of Jack Daniels, headache like he'd gone a few rounds with the perp they found jacked up on Viper, he'd decided he needed to do something. Took a shower, tossed the remaining booze. Drank his weight in water, cleaned everything within an inch of its life. Sat down and did some hard thinking. Tried to figure out where everything had gone wrong with Barbara, how everything was still all wrong with him, with his life. Turned to Google eventually, trying to work out how maybe he could stop from digging himself into a bigger hole. 

Trouble is, with the breathing trick, he's usually gone and fucked something up before he remembers to use it. Like right now, for example. 

Oswald's not looking at him, is fidgeting with his cuff links. "You don't have to stay. I would understand. And I'll be covering expenses, so there's no need for you to remain here until they bring out the check--" 

"Shit, no. No, don't worry about that. I'll stay. I have-- well, I have a lot of shit on my plate right now. I'm-- Christ, I'm sorry. You're just trying to help, and I'm being an asshat." 

Oswald looks at him like he's grown an extra head. Which is kind of great, because candid emotions are not a thing that happens to Oswald Cobblepot's face often. But also because gobsmacked looks kind of cute on him. 

Jesus. Jim needs more wine. 

.x. 

After dinner, they walk a few blocks in silence, the only noises Oswald's umbrella cane tapping on the pavement and the susurrus of a few other restaurant patrons' conversations as they pass them and head towards a side street. 

It's supremely weird, being out when it's dark out, but not on the job. Not scrabbling to catch a perp before he loses his badge at midnight, not on a suicide mission, not even being shot at right now. Well, he guesses he _is_ still on the job now. Sort of. 

After they'd moved on from deciding on verbal and nonverbal cues to check in or to stop, after they'd made their way through the rest of the bottle of wine and the criminally good crème brûlée with strawberries, after he'd realized he was staring at Oswald's lips and hadn't taken in a damn thing the man said, because the lips stopped moving, and Oswald started looking at him expectantly, and he'd blamed it on the orgasmic quality of the dessert and fought the urge to bang his head on the table, he'd almost forgotten. 

He's lost in his thoughts enough that Oswald manages to crowd him up against the brick of the alley, one hand pressed against the wall next to his neck, before he can really process what's just happened. 

"Kiss me." 

" _What?_ Jesus, Oswald. How much fucking wine did you have?" 

"James, think about this logically. You don't want the first time you kiss me to be in a crowded club full of potential suspects. I don't care how good you think you are at acting; our story is that we have an ongoing arrangement, and if that is the first time we kiss, it's going to show, and it's going to blow that cover story to smithereens." 

Jim sighs. Because how did this end up being his fucking life? 

"I'm not sure if you've heard, but this isn't my first rodeo. I think I can handle kissing you in front of a bunch of people just fine." 

"Without cringing? Without subconsciously recoiling? How can you be sure?" 

Jim bites his tongue, hard. Because he'd been about to say, "That's not going to be a problem." And that's not a sentiment he needs to throw out there for Oswald to misinterpret. Instead, he says, "Fine. One kiss, if you're so goddamned concerned I'm going to get us both killed otherwise." 

"This would also be a prime opportunity to practice using the nonverbal cue. Shall we say fifteen seconds, and then you'll use the cue to indicate that I should stop?" 

"Fine." 

"Fine." 

And then Oswald kisses him. 

The man damn near misses his mouth, landing on the very corner. Lips hesitant, barely brushing his own. Still enough to leave Jim light-headed and fuck if he remembered to count. Oswald's barely made it over to the middle of his mouth, touch still feather-light, when Jim figures it's been 15 seconds or near enough, and hell, if it goes on longer he's not going to be able to remember he's supposed to be counting. He pinches Oswald's side, hard, the cue to stop. 

Oswald pulls away, lips pink and pupils looking much larger than they did before. But it could just be that everything looks darker in the scant light. 

"What do you think-- shall we call it an evening?" he asks. 

"I think," Jim starts, then rushes on before the little voice in his head can even start with all the reasons he should shut the hell up, "That a kiss like that isn't going to convince anyone that we're fucking and you're paying me for it." 

"Oh? Is that right?" 

"Uh-huh." Jim holds up his hands placatingly. "I admit it-- you were right. It's a good thing that wasn't our first kiss in front of an audience. It just needs to be more-- well just-- you don't need to hold back. I'm not a china doll. I can take it." 

"Are saying I should kiss you again?" 

"Well, you're going to need to give that another try before show time. And I'm here now." 

"Okay." Oswald makes no move to come any closer to Jim. 

"I thought being clever was your main selling point. You need me to spell this out for you?" 

"If you want something from me James, you need to ask for it. That's how this works." 

"God, you're an ass." 

"I've been called worse." 

"Ok, so your first try? That was a shitshow. How about you kiss me like you mean it this time? Can't be that hard when you've got the chops for acting you do." 

Oswald doesn't need to be told twice. 

He's got fistfuls of Jim's lapels before Jim can even think to take a deep breath he really could have used, and then Oswald's lips are landing squarely on Jim's own, insistent and not at all gentle. Jim's hand comes up to tangle in Oswald's hair like muscle memory. There's a beat, and then Oswald mimics the action, bringing his hand to the back of Jim's scalp, nails scraping as he tries to find purchase in Jim's short hair. And Jim's feeling a little like his brain's on fire. But in a good way. Mostly. And he still has some modicum of control over the situation there to ground him, knowing he could stop to think about it all if he really wanted to. Probably. 

Instead, he realizes his left hand is still at his side when it would really be better employed touching Oswald. He moves it to rest on the man's lower back, what he hopes is neutral territory, and which is definitely not his ass, which was the first location that came to mind. _He said you could_ his mind supplies unhelpfully. 

And then he finds himself wondering if the way Oswald copied him earlier means that he's a tactile learner. He breaks away just enough to take the man's bottom lip between his teeth and bite experimentally. Hard enough to get his attention, but not enough to bruise. Oswald's lips part as he gasps. 

Jim smirks against the man's lips, because hey, apparently he's not the only one who's enjoying this a little more than he ought to be. He doesn't have long to be amused, though, because a few seconds later, Oswald bites his lower lip. And that's about when Jim's brain just completely short-circuits. 

He pulls Oswald towards him, pressing his body against him. Close enough that he can probably hear Jim's heartbeat going like he's in a high-speed chase with a perp, close enough that he can feel Oswald half-hard against his leg. Close enough that his brain, usually about as good as shutting up _ever_ as he is, grinds its gears a few times like a car trying to start, then sputters out with a "Nope, this is great, carry on." 

Oswald's hands come to rest on his hips, squeezing tightly, almost painfully. A little like he might be lost without something to hold onto, or maybe that's just how Jim feels right now. And then his grip loosens and his thumbs start tracing little circles on his hipbones and it's Jim's turn to break the kiss to gasp because _Jesus_. It's just not fair. 

It's difficult to say whether some desire for retaliation or just the surge of unadulterated want is responsible for what Jim does next. Which is skimming his hand down Oswald's back and bringing both hands to rest on the man's ass, and squeezing, then letting his hands linger there. He's rewarded with a sudden grip of steel on his hips and the start of a very pretty moan before Oswald bites his lip to stifle the rest. 

And then there's a sharp pinch in his side and he lets go of Oswald like he might a burning pan. 

"Shit, are you-- did I overstep your--" 

"No, not at all." It's a goddamn wonder that Oswald can sound so composed, words crisp despite his tussled hair and suit, red and swollen lips. "But one ought to leave _something_ for the main event, don't you think?" 

"Fair enough." Not at all. But stepping back from the situation and thinking about what the fuck he had done, what he'd still gladly be in the middle of if Oswald hadn't had the good sense to slam on the brakes, that was probably a good idea right about now. 

"Which way are you heading?" Oswald asks, bending to retrieve his umbrella. 

"Don't worry about me. It's freezing and I know you've got a driver waiting. I can find my way to the bus stop on my own. I mean, no one's even put a price on my head tonight. It'll be a cakewalk." 

Oswald smiles. "Do take care not to get shot before Friday night. I'll be expecting you at 10 o'clock sharp." 

Jim returns the smile. "Then I'll try not to get too much practice dodging bullets before then."

.x. 

Once Oswald's out of sight, Jim slumps back against the alley wall, and thinks, not for the first time, that he may be in over his head. 


	3. D Is for Dangerous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That tie, my friend, is gonna get you laid." 
> 
> Jim levels Harvey with a look. 
> 
> "I mean, or you could not wear it, and get choked out by the bouncer 'cause he takes one look at you and knows you're a cop. It's not like the success of the whole op is hangin' in the balance here or anything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, did I mention I love Harvey?
> 
> Also, how about that time in The Anvil and the Hammer where Jim barges into Oswald's club to ask him for a ticket into a swanky club for a case? I couldn't even with that episode.
> 
> In tangentially related news, I'm envisioning this story happening before then, as I started writing it before the most recent episodes came out.
> 
> (Also also: I had really meant to wrap things up in this chapter, but it turned out longer than expected. And I couldn't cut out the parts with Harvey because Jim needs friends. So now there will be four parts.)

It was a lapse in judgment, Jim tells himself when he gets home. Sleep deprivation. Stress. The fact that he might as well be selling his soul for his badge and hasn't got jack shit to show for it besides a trail of bodies of those he couldn't save and an empty apartment to come home to. 

All things Jim's come to learn precede really questionable decisions on his part. Together? It's like the perfect storm. 

But he's a grown man. He can deal with his own issues without boning a prominent member of a crime syndicate. 

He'll focus on the case. Putting a drug dealer behind bars, keeping a dangerous compound out of the hands of unsuspecting civilians. 

Right. 

.x. 

He rolls over, glances at the clock. 2am and he's still way too keyed up to sleep. 

Normally, a bit of whiskey would knock him out, no problem. But ever since he decided he was gonna get his shit together, he's made sure not to bring any booze home. 

Getting off would do the trick. 

He takes himself in hand, tries to just focus on the sensation, clear his mind. 

That works for about five seconds. 

Oswald's lips on his. Oswald's hands on him. Oswald's cock against him. Oswald moaning into his mouth. 

It's not much a of a leap to imagine Oswald underneath him, legs hooked around Jim's waist, pulling him deeper. Oswald hands on his hips, grip painful. Holding on for dear life, head thrown back, too far gone to care about trying to stifle his moans. 

Jim comes so hard he sees sparks dance across his vision, even with his eyes squeezed shut. 

Christ. 

But he can already feel his muscles relaxing, so he lets the haze spread over him. At least he'll be able to sleep now. 

He'll deal with the rest of the whole mess tomorrow. 

.x. 

Jim's never been happier to have an workplace full of people who are overworked and sleep-deprived at best and burnt out and apathetic at worst. 

Because his current case has abso-fucking-lutely no leads to pursue. 

But no one's gonna stop him if he wants to go out and trudge down half the back alleys in Gotham to find an eye witness for one of Alvarez's cases. Alvarez even says thank you when he drags the low-level mob lackey back into the precinct by his coat collar, surprising them both, because hey, it looks like Alvarez is speaking to him again. 

A few words with Harvey-- still no leads on _their_ case-- and he's dashing back out to go question bookies to see if they have any intel for a case of Harper's, Flask's replacement in Narco. 

.x. 

Around five, Harvey calls and says they got a hit on the murder weapon for their case. 

Jim knows something's up when Harvey hands him a cup of coffee. Not shit station coffee. Real coffee. 

" _Harvey_ \--" 

"Yeah?" The man couldn't pull off innocent if his life depended on it, but that doesn't stop him from trying. 

"What did you do?" 

"Hey, that's my line." 

Jim waits. 

"Okay, okay." He puts his hands up, placating. "So there wasn't a hit on the murder weapon." 

"God fucking damnit, Harvey-- I was out _working a case_ and you drag me back here, for what?" 

"Ok, first of all, that wasn't even our case, jackass. And before you go off about justice and lives at stake, hear me out: Harper's a big boy. He doesn't need you to hold his hand to do his job. 

"And this ain't you 'just working,' either, so don't give me that shit. This is you waving a big sign that says you're about to do something real stupid. And I need to know what. 

"'Cause last time you started acting like this, you nearly got us all killed. 

“Oh wait, that was like the last ten times. 

"Hell, let's face it-- you got another shitty idea, I'm probably coming with you. But you gotta give me something to go on. Tell me what we're up against. 'Cause the state of mind you're in, you sure as shit can't handle this yourself." 

"That's actually-- is this you looking out for me?" 

"This is me trying to make sure we both live til the weekend. I got plans." 

And Jim smiles, makes a mental note to get a box of donuts or booze or _something_ for Harvey, or at least try not to bite his head off the next time Harvey decides to do something infuriating. 

"There's just a lot going on for me right now." 

"Uh-huh." 

"Okay, okay. You know, I didn't want to say anything because I _really_ don't need to give you an excuse to ask about my sex life, but it's girl trouble." He holds up a hand to head Harvey off. "And no, before you ask, I don't wanna talk about it." 

"Well, shit. That high society dame of yours back in town or something?" 

Jim bites his tongue, doesn't wince. "No, she's not." 

"And you're sure 'girl trouble' ain't code for 'I'm thinking 'bout trying to take on one or both of the Families single-handed, on account of that went real well last time'?" 

"I'm not, I swear. I would tell you." 

Harvey stares at him for what feels like ages, appraising. 

"Ok. I believe you. 

"Tell you what-- most people, I'd say go home, get your head on straight. Knowing you, though, that'd be about as much help as pouring gasoline on a fire. 

“But for chrissakes, stop trying to close other guys' cases. You're makin' the rest of us look bad. I don't _care_ if Alvarez said thank you. He still resents you doin' his job for him. 

"So how 'bout you sit your ass down and help me with this stack of paperwork from our last three cases? Because I ain't got jack shit to write for why you ran into a building full of hostiles before backup got there on that Collins case." 

"I don't need a babysitter, Harvey." 

"And I don't deserve to do this mountain of paperwork all by my lonesome." 

"That's hardly a mountain--" 

"Then I'm sure you won't mind giving me a hand, _partner_." 

Jim eyes the stack of paperwork warily. "You've been here all day." 

"Uh-huh." 

"And we don't have any leads to pursue." 

"Nope." 

"But somehow you couldn't even put a dent in paperwork from three cases?" 

"Did I say three? When's the last time you remember either of us doing paperwork? There's gotta be more like nine, ten in there. Besides, I'll have you know I spent the day working through some pretty serious abandonment issues, after you high-tailed it outta here to work on Alvarez's case without so much as a 'thanks for holding down the fort and stoppin' the other cops from a drawing dicks all over my desk, Harvey.'" 

"The same desk I remember you asking me to keep your flask in so you wouldn’t mix whiskey with your coffee," Jim says, but he's grinning. 

"All the more reason to not want it covered in dicks." 

.x. 

Jim begs off work at eight and Harvey looks at him likes he's just turned down free donuts. 

"You're leaving early? You, Jim fucking Gordon, are leaving the premises while there are still good people at work? Well, people at work, anyway." He looks at Jim, appraising. "You got a hot date? Is that what your 'girl trouble' was? Because if it is, you got a funny definition of trouble." 

"The sting at the club, Harvey. That's tonight." 

"Oh, oh, right. So what, you're nervous about the _case_? That's a first." 

"I'm not nervous about the--" 

"Tell you what, remember that faux designer dealer bust a while back? Well, a few of those Italian suits may have made their way into my closet, and I think one of them might fit you. Wanna find out?" 

.x. 

"That tie, my friend, is gonna get you laid." 

Jim levels Harvey with a look. 

"I mean, or you could not wear it, and get choked out by the bouncer 'cause he takes one look at you and knows you're a cop. It's not like the success of the whole op is hangin' in the balance here or anything." 

Jim sighs. "How'd you even end up with this suit? No way this one's gonna fit you in the shoulders or for length." 

"Thought I might sell it, get myself to a beach somewhere, if this city's murderers ever let me get some goddamn vacation time." 

"You were gonna _sell_ the suit you _confiscated_ for--" Jim stops, actually remembers to do that breathing thing. "You know what, it doesn't matter. Thank you. I'll try to get it back in one piece. No promises, though. I mean, I won't be wearing a badge, but apparently I got a face that just makes people wanna put bullet holes in me." 

.x. 

He arrives in their meeting spot, an alley a few blocks away from the club, a little early. 

It's work. He should be punctual. 

Also, he might spontaneously combust if he waits another minute at the bus stop. 

Oswald's already there leaning up against the brick. Umbrella-less for once, Jim notes, but immaculately dressed as ever. 

"Detective." 

"Cobblepot." 

Any doubts he'd had about letting Harvey pick out his tie disappear when he catches the man giving him a once-over. 

"Anything else that I should be aware of before we head into the lion's den?" Oswald says. 

"How about my name for the night?" 

"Which is?" 

"Brad." 

"That's so... perfectly ordinary." 

"That a problem? We're trying not to attract attention, remember?" 

"Not at all. That's why it's called acting." 

"I-- I'm not even going to try to parse that. You remember the plan, right? We find the guy, you go talk to him--" 

"And then we take care to stay at the club for a respectable amount of time afterwards so as not arouse suspicion. _Of course_ I remember. Remind me, out of the two of us, who's better at sticking to a plan?" 

"I have to adapt to the situation at hand, and sometime that means--" 

Oswald holds up a hand. "Leave the bullshitting to me, James. It's really not your area of expertise." He sighs, but then his expression softens a bit. "Just, if you must improvise, let me know, so I can play along?" 

"I can't--" 

"For the sake of my _safety_. You promised--" 

"I know what I promised.” 

“Then you’ll let me know if you’re going to go off-book, yes?" 

Jim sighs. Rakes his hand through his hair. Decides he needs to save his willpower for more important shit tonight. “I’ll try.” 

"Excellent. Shall we?" 

Just like that. Business as usual. Like last night never happened. 

Jim is absolutely not disappointed. Because what did he expect? Another kiss? A declaration of undying love? 

And what did he care, anyway?

.x. 

When they reach the end of the alley and step out into the street in front of the club, he feels Oswald's hand settle on his lower back. 

It makes sense. They’ve got a chance of being seen by club staff or patrons now, so they need to start putting on a show. 

He can't help but lean into the contact. Maybe Oswald will chalk it up to method acting. 

But Oswald turns to look at him and he's _smirking_. And Jesus, he _knows_. He knows exactly what he's doing. 

So maybe it's not just business as usual. 


	4. Only Ones Who Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god. I'm so sorry for the wait. It's partly because I had to look for a new apartment and that took over my life and partly because I rewrote almost the whole damn chapter. Whoops. 
> 
> Also, there's going to be one more chapter because this one got a lot longer than I'd intended. But I'll try my best to get the next one up more quickly.
> 
> Also, I've been on tumblr, but I finally got around to making a Gotham side blog, which is sometimetodayforpreference, if you're looking for me or would rather chat there than in the comments.

" _Someone's_ decorator is still bitter that they didn't come of age during Prohibition," Oswald says. 

Jim follows Oswald's gaze, taking in the the dark cherry wood paneling of the walls, ceiling panels of the same material carved into concentric squares. Dim lighting, except for one bar he can see from here, row upon row of liquor bottles backlight and gleaming. 

They'd made it inside and installed themselves by the wall facing the club entrance without any trouble, except for the fact that Jim's having a meltdown. Because Oswald _knows_. Hard to say just how much he knows, but where Oswald's concerned, it's generally safe to assume the worst. 

"I uh, don't really know too much about Prohibition-era style." Somehow, that whole forming coherent sentences thing was much easier at dinner the night before. 

"Just as well; I suspect the twenties may have been one of the few times when an honest member of your profession might have been up against worse odds in this city." His smile fades when he looks back at Jim. "Are you all right?" 

Alcohol. That was probably why. 

"Yeah. Great." There's really no point in trying to make his expression corroborate this. He's never had a good poker face. Oswald quirks a brow, but doesn't comment further. And Jim's quick to fill the silence before he has time to change his mind on that front. "You know what, I'm gonna go get us drinks. What're you having?"

Oswald pauses, considering. "Surprise me." 

The bar is crowded already, but Jim doesn't mind waiting. Leaves time for some deep breathing and a mental pat on the back for remembering to _before_ he'd made a huge mistake. 

He almost has his head back on straight by the time they're ready to take his order. 

Oswald's eyes flick from the two martinis back up to Jim's face, and when their eyes meet, his smile is one part amusement and two parts trouble. And that should absolutely not make Jim's stomach flutter the way it does. "I would've taken you for more of a whiskey man." 

"I've got hidden depths." Jim gingerly removes the olive garnish and knocks back the contents of the glass in one gulp. 

Oswald's expression is one of abject horror. "What do you think you're doing--" he hisses. 

Jim grins. Because this, banter and one-upmanship and trying to make _Oswald_ the one who feels off kilter, this is familiar ground. This, he can handle. 

"Relax," he says, leaning in so Oswald can still hear him whisper, "These are virgin martinis. Don't worry-- no one else knows. And I promised the bartender you'd be tipping him handsomely to keep it that way." 

Oswald wraps an arm around Jim's waist, pulls him closer. Closer than is probably necessary for covert operations reasons. Jim can't see his face from this angle, but he's pretty sure he can hear Oswald's smile when he says, "I knew there was a reason I liked you." To Jim's chagrin, the fluttering in his stomach starts all over again. 

.x. 

They've been standing in the middle of the room facing each other so that between the two of them, they can see everyone in the place. A great idea, really. 

Great except that it's been half an hour and they still haven't found the dealer. They haven't even found anyone that they think _might_ be the dealer. 

Conversation's come more easily, at least. Maybe because their current task means Oswald's at arm's length. Or maybe because he's actually able to push whatever was happening before to the back of his mind and be a goddamn professional. 

And then Oswald cups a hand around his neck and _when did he close the distance between them_ and _oh god_ he wouldn't just lean in for a kiss without telling Jim, right? 

But Oswald only smiles and says, "I'm afraid I've not have any luck so far. Have you seen anyone who would fit the bill for our man?" 

As if Oswald doesn't know perfectly well that Jim would tell him as soon as he had. But getting his brain to communicate with his mouth to tell Oswald as much takes longer than he'd like, longer than probably seems natural. Mainly because somewhere along in his previous train of thought, he'd started staring at Oswald's mouth, and now Oswald's licking his lips, and it's really distracting. 

He looks away. 

When he trusts himself to look back at Oswald, he sees a tic of tension at his jaw, there and gone as fast as he blinks. 

Which might be nothing. But there it is again. Nerves? Unlikely. Their present situation's a walk in the park compared to the shit Oswald's gotten himself into. Pain? But he doesn't have any injuries, none that Jim can see anyway-- fuck. What if it's his bad leg? Jim's been so caught up in his own bullshit and the case that that hadn't even crossed his mind. Some job he'd done of keeping his promise to look out for Oswald tonight. 

Oswald doesn't usually say a word about his leg. But when Jim fucked up a tendon in his thigh in high school-- during practice, not even a game, and god, had the coach given him hell for that-- he hadn't even been good to stand for long periods of time for weeks after. Fuck if he knows what Oswald's limitations are. And he suspects asking would be about as good an idea as poking a wounded wolf with a stick. 

"I, uh-- I've been on my feet all day, and I think it's catching up with me. Do you want me to grab us chairs?" 

Oswald narrows his eyes, searches Jim's face. "I don't know which is worse; my previous misconception that you were entirely incapable of tact or subtlety, or the realization that you're capable of both and yet fail to see how they could be of use to you in your line of work." He smiles, but there's no malice in it, just exasperation. "But a chair would be appreciated. Thank you." 

That could've gone worse. "I'll be right back." 

There are a bunch of free-standing armchairs, upholstered in dark leather or red velvet, throughout the club, but he hasn't found a single one that's unoccupied. It's weird, because he doesn't remember so many people sitting just a few minutes ago. 

Jim's still on the hunt when the lights dim and a guy in a tux appears on stage, dwarfing a microphone in large hands. Hard to say whether the attention he commands from everyone in the place almost instantly is because of his chiseled face or the muscles large enough to suggest he might be both emcee and security around here. 

"Gentlemen and less reputable gentleman," he says. "The evening's entertainment will be beginning shortly. So please, take the next five minutes to find a seat and find a companion. And then sit back and enjoy the show." 

Fuck. 

A full two minutes of frantic searching and he finally spots a single chair. 

Looks back over, chair in hand. He can't see Oswald. 

He's probably right where he left him. There's been a mad rush to the bar, and to find chairs. And even if he's not, it's unlikely he's getting knifed in the middle of a crowded club. 

Unlikely, but not impossible. 

And now there's a sea of people shuffling chairs around trying to make sure they've got the best view of the stage and a nice table nearby for their drinks. And who, Jim discovers, do not take kindly to being asked to move out of the way for a man carrying a large plush armchair. 

Turns out anxiety-fueled anger and his practice with the criminal underbelly of Gotham are a great combination, actually. 

There's a little voice telling him he really doesn't need to be attracting this kind of attention, glaring at any uncooperative patrons within an inch of their life and roughly shouldering his way past any who are still too slow to move out of the way. 

He ignores it. Finding Oswald is all that matters right now. 

He makes it back in under a minute. 

Oswald is fine, of course. 

"I--" He has no idea where he was going with that sentence. It didn't seem important, now that he knew Oswald was ok, but now that he's got his undivided attention, he needs to say _something_. "I couldn't find another chair. So take this one." 

"I thought you were the one in need of a place to sit?" 

"I--" 

Oswald smiles, amused, but then seems to take pity on him. "At any rate, it's going to look silly if only one of us is sitting. And half the room will be able to see us, what with everyone straining in their seats to get a better view of the performers. Sit." 

"But--" 

"What did I say about following my lead?" 

Jim sits. 

"I'm going to sit on your lap now," Oswald says, "if that's all right with you." 

Jim swallows, hard. "It's fine." More than fine. Which is the problem. 

.x. 

Jim’s watching the first act like it’s a crime scene that’s only gonna be intact for the next few seconds because the sky’s threatening rain. Because he needs something to distract him from how Oswald’s close enough that he can smell his no doubt obscenely expensive aftershave, can feel every rise and falls of his chest as he breathes. 

The lighting team's done something so that the whole stage is awash in deep red. Orchestra members off to the right are all bent over their instruments, starting in on a tango with military precision and intensity. But no one's looking at them. All eyes are on the two men entering from left-stage. 

A kind of wiry guy first, lithe and fast. Three-piece suit, brown hair slicked into something out of Mad Men, maybe early twenties. The second man, clearly in pursuit. More heavily built, his muscles more obvious. Though that could also be the lack of jacket, the shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. Probably around the same age. Close-cropped black hair and five-o'-clock shadow. 

Shirtsleeves chases suit across the stage, driving him flat against the wall stage-left. Suit draws himself up, pushes shirtsleeves off with enough force to send him flying back a foot or so. Buys enough time for suit to pull something out his pocket. 

There's a glint of metal. And then Jim's arm’s braced on the armrest, ready to rush into action before his conscious mind even processes that it's a knife. 

And then Oswald’s hand’s on his knee. “Hey.” Craning his head around so he can look at Jim, make sure he got his attention. “Breathe. He's not going to actually stab anyone. It’s just a show.” 

Jim looks away. “I fucking _know that_.” Harsher than he meant. 

He looks back at Oswald, whose face says he knows Jim’s full of shit. But he doesn’t say a damn thing. 

Jim returns his gaze to the stage. 

Only to see an honest-to-god knife fight between suit, in possession of the lone knife, and shirtsleeves. Meticulously choreographed play-acting. Jim _knows_. But they're good. Really good. It's still pretty damn realistic. 

Still sends his pulse racing, makes his breath short and his hand itch for his gun. 

He tries to focus on the details. The way the whole power dynamic between the two has switched, shirtsleeves sent on the defensive. The way they move around each other like dancers, all give and take and grace. Suit’s agile lunge with the knife countered by an equally graceful dodge. Shirtsleeves landing a blow with the same momentum, suit leaning into the blow like he’s being pulled in with a magnet, only to catch the arm delivering it with the blade of his knife. The way the orchestra’s picked up to match the fight’s pace, violins now all high-pitched and percussive. 

"For god's sake, stop fidgeting." It takes a moment to shake himself and register that Oswald's talking to him. "The thing about sharing a chair,” he continues, “is I can feel you jostling each time you do that. And if you keep it up, you might find a knife between your ribs." 

Jim huffs a laugh, the breath back in coming a little easier than the one before. "You're the one who wanted to sit on my lap." 

"If you need something to do with your hands, you should have said so," he says. "May I borrow yours?" 

"Sorry, what?" 

"Don’t worry—nothing untoward. I wanted to show you something, but it’s going to won't involve me touching your hand. May I?" 

Jim offers his right hand obediently. 

Oswald takes it in his own and with his free hand begins tracing over his knuckles and the spaces in between with his fingertip. 

Jim bites his lip. Twenty-four hours ago, he had Oswald's cock pressed against his leg. But somehow, this feels more intimate. Maybe because he’s already keyed up on adrenaline after spotting the knife. Maybe because Oswald seems intent on demonstrating just how many nerve endings there are in Jim's hand by lighting them all up in rapid succession. 

He swallows, hard. Oswald's tracing a second loop now. Jim hears his pulse pounding in his ears and hopes to god Oswald can't feel its pace where their hands touch. 

It's probably not even meant to be sexual, not even part of the play-acting. Just something to stop Jim from fidgeting. 

Only now he's stopped. "Save us both the trouble, hm?" Oswald says. 

And then the penny drops. Something for _Jim_ to do with his hands. He cranes forward to try to see Oswald's face, just to be sure. "You want me to...?" 

As Oswald turns his head toward Jim’s, he sees his neutral expression change to one that suggests Jim's being particularly slow. "It's an invitation, not an order. But you clearly need something to do with your excess... energy." A pause just long enough to suggest that was a kinder word than the one he'd come across first. 

Jim can do this. He _wants_ to touch Oswald, with an intensity and single-mindedness usually reserved for cases. 

But he shouldn’t. There’s a thousand reasons he shouldn’t. 

A few beats of hesitation, marked out by the orchestra. And then he takes Oswald's right hand in his, their palms together, his hand under Oswald's. Moves both down to rest on Oswald's thigh. Starts tracing over bony knuckles and the beginnings of delicate fingers. 

A clatter snaps Jim’s attention back to the stage. Shirtsleeves has knocked the knife out of suit's hands, and now he’s pinning him against the wall, forearm braced against suit's chest. 

A few tense bow strokes as the orchestra climbs towards a fever pitch. And then suit surges up and kisses him. 

Oswald elbows him. Jim’s got an expletive on the tip of his tongue til he looks down and sees that his hand has stilled on Oswald’s. Oh. 

He draws his hands back. Now’s as a good a time as any to come to his senses. 

Onstage, suit reaches up and grabs shirtsleeves' free hand, spins him out, and then back to him. And then they're dancing. 

Jim clenches his fists, let's his fingernails dig into his palms hard enough that he knows they'll leave impressions. Because what the fuck did he think he was doing? He can play along if he needs to, if people are watching. If he’s going to jeopardize Oswald’s safety or the mission. But otherwise, he shouldn’t touch him. Shouldn’t even think about it. Because Oswald’s sitting on his lap, and look what happened last time they were this close. Because Oswald cheats and lies and _kills people_ , and Jim can’t have it both ways. Can’t say he wants to save the city with his bare hands and his last breath and then stick his tongue down Oswald’s throat. 

Suit's leading, initiating dips, a few more spins, guiding shirtsleeves across the floor. For his part, shirtsleeves seems caught off guard, hesitant at first. But a few moves later, he's giving as good as he's getting. Now letting his hands roam across suit's back, now pulling suit in close by his tie, now flashing a shit-eating grin. 

But Jim’s done those things, too. Back when he was a teen, stupid and angry and hurting. And he’s killed people. In the army, when he had to. Might do it again in the line of duty, as a cop. Harvey already has, hell if he knows how many times and under what kind of circumstances. And he’d take a bullet for him, wouldn't think twice.

The music stops and the act ends, both men frozen in an embrace. Then the applause starts. The disentangle themselves, and as the step apart, they break character, both smiling broadly and bowing. 

The lights dim, partly masking the stage hands who scurry across the stage clearing away the remains of this act, moving in new props. 

Oswald leans back to rest his head on Jim’s shoulder, lips right next to his ear, voice low when he speaks. "If you looked to your left-- don't look now, we can't both look, and I highly doubt you'll want to see once I tell you-- there's a man practically being fellated seven seats over. While I expect his companion is one of the more overtly amorous in the room, he's certainly not alone. We're sticking out like a sore thumb." 

"How is that a problem? Isn't everyone gonna be watching the show again in a few minutes?" 

"Some will. And some will continue vicariously watching everyone else." 

"So?” He doesn’t think that breathing tricks’s gonna be much good right now. He’s too keyed up and Oswald is way too close. He digs his fingernails into his fist again instead. “Aren't we supposed to be on the rocks right now anyway?" 

"Well, yes. But _someone_ may have attracted a bit of attention dragging a chair halfway across the club. Someone with a face that's graced newspaper covers not so long ago. Blending in right now would be a good idea." Cool and collected. Like they’re discussing the weather. 

"And what would you suggest we do about that?" 

"Well, for starters, you could kiss me." He _could_. 

"The angle's all wrong for that, if you don't want it to hurt to turn your head tomorrow." He shouldn’t. 

"I didn't say on the mouth." He moves his head off Jim’s shoulder, straightens. Tilts his head to one side, the long column of his neck a clear suggestion.

Christ. 

Oswald’s safety should come first. God knows how many people had already seen his face, were already suspicious. 

And as long as he wasn’t on the receiving end of it, he could keep his control, keep his composure. Stop things if he needed to, say they’d done enough to maintain their cover. 

“I—you’re ok with that?” The music’s picked up again, but Jim couldn’t care less what’s happening onstage. 

Oswald sighs, all impatience. “I asked you to. Of course I am.” 

Jim takes a deep breath. It’s still a shit idea and he’s knows it. 

He braces one hand on the space between Oswald’s neck and shoulder, leans around to the other side. Finally presses a kiss to Oswald’s neck, just under his ear. And another just below that. And another, and another, all the way down to where Oswald’s collar stops him. 

"Can I open your shirt? It’s in the way.” The words are out before he can think what he’s saying. 

“By all means,” Oswald says, speaking before Jim has a chance to apologize, take it back. 

Apparently Jim’s being too slow with the Continental Cross, because Oswald bats his hands away and tackles it himself, making quick work of it and stuffing it unceremoniously into his breast pocket. A few buttons, and he’s able to push the collar and suit jacket aside and bare Oswald’s throat and collarbone. “Marking below the collar? You said that’s ok?” 

“Yes, yes, that’s fine.” Aiming for his usual haughty impatience, but voice sounding closer to strained and breathless. It makes Jim's breath catch, knowing he can crack Oswald’s perfect composure like that, with just a few kisses. 

Jim presses a kiss to his collarbone, then bites. Not hard at all. He said it was ok, but Jim still feels he should tread carefully here. Oswald gasps. 

Emboldened, Jim slides his lips along Oswald’s collarbone, marginally closer to the hollow of his throat. Bites again. Another breathy gasp from Oswald. 

Jim sucks at the skin in the same spot, adds a scrape of teeth for good measure, then goes back to sucking. Oswald whines at the contact. 

At this angle, he can’t reach Oswald’s clavicle to pay it the same attention. He knows the skin there is even more sensitive, thinks he might be able to tease a moan from Oswald if he could reach it. Which he can’t. Later. 

No. Not later. Because there isn’t going to _be_ a later. When the show ends, he’s gonna keep a foot of space between the two of them at all times. He’s not gonna touch Oswald unless it’s the only way not to avoid blowing their cover. He’s not—“Please. Don’t stop.” Oswald’s voice sounds wrecked. And derails Jim’s train of thought entirely. He looks down and sees he had stopped, lost in his thoughts, his lips now just hovering above Oswald’s skin. He closes the distance between them to suck at Oswald collarbone again, at a spot where, at this rate, there’s gonna be an impressive hickey soon. Oswald scrabbles for purchase, one hand on the arm rest and the other finding Jim’s knee, fingernails digging into his skin. 

And then there’s a burst of applause, a few whistles. Several audience members stand and continue applauding, then a few more. The lights come up. The applause dies down and the buzz of conversations starts up again. 

Jim breathes out, straightens up. Makes peace with the fact that he may never know what happened during the rest of the show. It’s not very difficult. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Traditionally, martinis are alcohol mixed with more alcohol (two parts gin and one vermouth, with olive brine added to taste if it's a dirty martini). Which makes the creation of a virgin martini a bit tricky. But according to the internet, you can mix non-alcoholic white wine with juniper (and star anise and coriander) as a gin substitute and, for martinis in particular, use only olive brine instead of vermouth and olive brine.


	5. Do the Bad Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I’m the actual worst with timely updates, and this chapter was especially bad because it ended up being so damn long. Thanks to everyone who stuck it out waiting! Also, thank you so much to all the lovely folks who have been reading and commenting on previous chapters! Comments are my lifeblood, and this fandom is hands-down the nicest and friendliest one I’ve ever been part of. (As always, I’m happy to chat in the comments or on my side-tumblr, sometimetodayforpreference.)

Twenty minutes after the show, Jim and Oswald are still sitting side by side at the smaller bar, nursing another round of fake drinks and taking turns scanning the room in the mirrored cabinets behind the bar. Design’s probably meant to distract from the fact that this bar doesn’t have quite as impressive an array of liquor as the main one does, but Jim can’t really spare it much thought. Mostly on account of it’s getting increasingly difficult to actually scan the room. Because he keeps winding up staring at Oswald’s reflection instead. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath. So maybe he wants to fuck Oswald's brains out. The exhale is shakier than he'd like, but there's still some relief, some small satisfaction in being able to lay bare the truth. Like when you come back to a witness two days later, _know_ they know something they didn't want to share with the class before. Have to chase 'em across three rooftops and pin 'em to a wall and scream, "We know you were lying, where is he?" in their face, but then they tell you what you need to know. 

The club’s only open for a few more hours, and then he can go home and have a real drink and a cold shower. He just needs to be a goddamn professional and deal this for another few hours, max. 

And he actually manages to keep his eyes on the other patrons for the next few minutes. Which he’s gonna count as a win. 

Only suddenly Oswald has a fistful of his lapels and is tugging him forward roughly. He catches Jim by surprise and off-balance, tips him off his stool. Sends him crashing down, his feet finding the ground, but the momentum bringing his torso much closer to Oswald than he’d like. Leaves him breathless, and not just from the surprise and the new closeness. 

And Oswald’s not finished, apparently, because he still has Jim by the jacket and yanks him closer. Way too goddamn close. Still seated and with Jim on the ground, he has a few inches on him, and Jim has to tilt his head up to meet his eyes. Jim’s breath is coming fast, pulse is nowhere near steady. But he tilts his chin up defiantly, meets Oswald's gaze. A sharp smile from Oswald, and then his other hand comes up to rest on Jim’s neck, guiding him closer still. Oswald might be about to kiss him. And Jim should stop him, should say no one’s paying attention to them right now and that’s absolutely not necessary for their cover, knock his hand away. But instead, he lets his eyes flutter closed, and it's all he can do not to lean in. 

There's no kiss, just Oswald's lips against the shell of Jim’s ear, voice a whisper when he says, "We need to have a fight." 

"What?" Jim hisses. That would explain the manhandling. Whether that was Oswald trying to make their impending fight convincing for their audience or to actually provoke Jim into a fight is anyone's guess. 

Oswald sighs, impatient. "We haven't even come close to finding the man you're looking for, and at this rate, we're not likely to if we sit around and wait for him to slip up.” Jim tries to focus on the words, not the feel of Oswald’s breath on his neck. “So we need to make him come to us." It's not easy. 

"I thought you said we needed to blend in." Sure, that might actually work. Doesn’t make it a remotely good idea. "Pulling a stunt like that? We're gonna have everyone in this place staring. Including security. That's a damn big risk and you know it." 

Oswald pulls away to stare Jim down properly when he speaks next. "And when has that ever stopped you before?" 

Jim's jaw clenches, body switching seamlessly from whatever the hell was happening before to tension and defensiveness, even if his mind’s still playing catch-up. "This is different."

Oswald looks distinctly unimpressed. "I fail to see how." 

"It's not just my life on the line here, ok? If anything happened to--" Damn Oswald and his unfailing ability to wind Jim up, make him run his mouth. "Sonuvabitch. We're--" Jim huffs a laugh, exasperated. "You did that on purpose. We're already fighting." 

Oswald smiles. "You never could resist rising to the bait, could you?" 

"I-- no. You know what, we can try this.” It _is_ a bad idea, risky as hell. But Jim’s shit out of good ideas, and if Oswald knows what he’s getting himself into—and they need to find this guy. Before they lose their window of opportunity and the drug winds up on the street. Before he loses his damn mind. “But the first sign of trouble, I'm gonna drag you into a booth and let people think we're kissing and making up, whether we've found our man or not. Got it?" 

Oswald smirks, clearly focused on his victory and probably letting everything else Jim just said go in one ear and out the other. "I highly doubt that we will have to worry about that eventuality. That is, if you think you can keep your proclivity to manhandling at bay and stick to verbal sparring. And avoid shouting anything that might blow your cover." 

"What?” Jim says, crossing his arms over his chest. “You don't think I can keep up?" 

Oswald raises an eyebrow, as good as an answer in the affirmative. "Prove me wrong. You're not off to a promising start, using grade school logic to justify your reckless actions." 

"The hell's that supposed to mean?" 

He's seen Oswald angry-- truly angry-- and looking at his eyes, he can tell this is just play acting. There's no fire there, no heat. "Do you really think that anytime you execute some boneheaded plan of yours, your life is the only one you're putting at stake?" 

But as usual, it takes very little for him to wind Jim up. "I'm not asking anybody to come with me--" 

Oswald inclines his head, conceding the point. "You're not. But you still have a few friends who would stand by your side, come hell or high water, no matter the danger. Even if you didn't ask them to." 

"My colleagues?” Voice much more controlled than it usually is when he and Oswald argue, and he’s pretty damn proud of himself for that. But he’s also guessing that Oswald’s just getting warmed up. “They know what they're getting themselves into. And they can fend for themselves." 

"That's as may be,” Oswald says. “But with the odds you play, that won't always be enough. 

"And it's more complicated than that, though, isn't it?” Sharp edge to his voice like the safety guard’s still on, but it’s a near thing. Like Jim should be worried. “The game of Russian Roulette you're playing with your loved ones' lives? Because it's not just those literally following you into the lion's den. It's everyone by your side, everyone whom you care for. Every time you make an enemy, you're painting a target on their foreheads. Or did you think your en-emies would keep the fighting clean when they sought revenge?" 

"No shit, Sherlock,” Jim spits, any hope of keeping a level head or voice long gone. “You think I don't fucking know that I put people in danger just by being seen with them? You think it doesn't eat at me every goddamn day?” Eyes hard and boring into Oswald’s. 

"Friends I have these days, I can count on one hand. And I'm not looking to make more. Ask anyone. I don't have a rep as someone you want to get to know better. That's _intentional_. And there's a damn good reason for it. 

"But I can't just _stop_.” Hands slicing through the air, hoping his energy can make up for the way his words fall short. “Stop caring about the people I already let get too close, or stop trying to fix Gotham. Make her better again. 

"The hell do you want me to do?" 

"Was that why you kept me at arm's length?" Oswald asks, voice quiet. Which, okay. Not the barb Jim had been prepared for, something about being less reckless, maybe. Not a barb at all. 

Jim shouldn’t look away. Because that's probably as incriminating as answering But holding Oswald's gaze while he looks at him, masks off, raw and open—it’s tortuous. A quick glance to the side, just to clear his head. And then Oswald's up in Jim's personal space with no warning, fingers under Jim's chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. Touch gentle, but eyes fever-bright. Dangerous. 

"Was it?” He asks, voice still quiet. Earnest. “I need to know. _Please._ " 

And Jim wants to say yes, yes, course it was. Maybe not at first. And maybe not conscious-ly. But as soon as it's laid out like that, asked bluntly, it's so fucking obvious he could kick him-self. 

And he could say all that. Could easily wrap a hand around Oswald's neck and pull him down, close the last few inches between them and kiss him senseless to prove it. And it takes all his willpower not to. 

He sucks in a shallow breath. If he was looking for a sign that he needed to do something, _whatever it took_ to head this all off, close off that possibility entirely, this was it. 

He knocks Oswald's hand away roughly. "Don't fucking _touch me._ " he spits. The anger comes easy. Always has. 

"You don't get to--" Jim takes a few steps back, like physical distance might soften the blow. "You don't have any _right_ to--" 

"You've shown nothing but blatant disrespect for my profession since the day we met. And you can't shit on everything I stand for and then call us friends in the same breath. Say you still want my company. Say you want a damn thing from me and expect me to believe you, to let you--" He cuts himself off. It would be easy to let more words tumble out carelessly, all the frustrations of the past two days, the past few months. But he's going somewhere with this and he needs to stay focused. 

Jim leans back in, voice low as he says, "You wanna know why I've been keeping you at arm's length?" He pauses, as much for effect as to ground himself. Remind himself not to flinch, not to look away. "Because I don't _want_ you any closer. I couldn't stand it." 

Oswald's lips press together tightly enough that it's got to be painful. His eyes are shining as he stares back at Jim. And then in an instant, any sign of pain, of vulnerability is gone. Gone and replaced by anger written in the hard line of Oswald's mouth, the fire in his eyes.

But Jim can't stop now, because this needs to be said, needs to be ended. "You're just a tool to me. Useful. Convenient. Good for a favor when I need one. But anything beyond that? Companionship? Trust? Whatever the hell else you seem to want from me? That's not what this is, and it's never gonna happen. I couldn't possibly--" 

"You've said more than enough." Oswald's voice is ice as he cuts Jim off, cold and brittle. "But if you want to hurt me, you're going to have to try _a little harder_. 

“I'm perceptive-- it keeps me alive. Did you think I didn't already know how you felt about me?" Oswald smiles then, eyes manic. “I must correct you on one point, though, old friend. I'm many things, but I'm not a hypocrite. All my flaws, all my mistakes? I've made peace with them. I wear them like armor and I sleep like a baby every night. 

"But you?" He laughs. "You're a real piece of work." 

Jim's still a bit in shock, still trying to catch up. He’s not fast enough to interject before Oswald barrels on. "I've met children with more appreciation of nuance than you have. Your ideology is so simplistic, so limited, that it cannot even accomplish its intended purpose as your moral compass. The bar for achieving goodness is set so high that no one in this city can reach it, much less live by it. Not without ending up a martyr. Not even you." 

"And on some level, you know that-- know your toothless methods, your narrow views won't cut it in this city. But you're too squeamish, too cowardly to do what needs to be done yourself. So you look on while someone else does the dirty work, tell yourself your hands are still clean. You ask me for a favor and then spit on the ground on the way out to be rid of the bitter taste of corruption. As if that could stop it from worming its way under your bones." _Jesus._ He's known, at least deep down, what Oswald is capable of. That language is just as familiar a weapon to him as any gun or knife. That he usually holds back around Jim because he likes him. 

"You condemn your brothers in arms, but you're just as guilty as they are. The only difference between you and them is that they have the clarity to see what they are and the pragmatism to accept that that path is the only way to get anywhere in this city." But it's one thing to know that, and another to have that gun turned on him. But he's made his bed. Now he has to lie back, let this steamroll over him. Because if he opens his mouth now, he knows the truth's gonna spill right out. 

"If you insist on clinging to your delusions-- I'm sure I can't imagine all the moral backflips you must do to be able to face yourself in the mirror, to live with yourself, but it sounds exhausting-- you won't leave this city better, safer, brighter than you found it. You won't leave a trace. You'll wind up friendless and alone, with no one to claim the body when your luck runs out and someone finally succeeds in putting a bullet between your eyes. I can promise you that." 

They stand at an impasse for a few moments, practically nose to nose, glaring at each other. Neither willing to look away or back down. 

Jim is the first to look away. He turns on his heel in the same fluid motion, makes a show of storming off towards the smaller bar. There's very little acting required. 

He feels physically sick. His hands are shaking, he realizes, looking down as he slides into a seat at the bar. 

All fucking night. All fucking night he'd said he just needed to get though the op, and then he could go over all this bullshit with a fine-tooth comb. 

But now there's a good chance they won't even make it though the op because he can't fucking keep himself in line. So maybe he needs to deal with it right now. 

He glances up at the mirrored cabinets. Spots Oswald quickly, standing alone, but also not looking entirely closed off. Still approachable, still likely on he lookout for the dealer. Still here. 

So maybe the op isn't totally fucked yet. Maybe there's still time to get his head on straight, turn this around. 

He wipes a hand down his face. Orders a whiskey, the real stuff. Just to have something solid to hold on to, to steady himself. 

He's angry, of course. 

It doesn't feel nice to have some of his worst fears confirmed, his flaws laid bare. But it's not like that's the first time he's thought about all that. Not the first time he's seen where he was, asked himself if he was still on the right course. If the right course would even take him where he needed to go. 

That shit keeps him up at night, when he's bone-tired and aching for the relief of sleep, for a chance to stop fucking thinking about anything at all. Oswald may have a way with words, may have been out for blood, but nothing he said is worse than what Jim's own mind has taunted him with. If it were just that, he'd be okay right now, or near enough. 

The whiskey was a shit idea, he realizes, as soon as they set a tumbler in front of him and he wants nothing more than to knock back the whole thing in one go. Because then he'd be numb. Numb except the warmth of the alcohol as it went down, everything else toned down, blurred and distorted. 

Then he wouldn't feel the guilt lancing through him like some mob muscle with a pitchfork. Wouldn't see in his mind’s eye the expression on Oswald's face when Jim said he couldn't stand to have him any closer. The flicker of pain, raw and deep, before his face contorted in anger, in defiance. 

But god knows drinking right now might be the only thing he could possibly do to make the situation worse. So he just swirls the drink around in the glass, stares down at it like it's a goddamn magic eight ball and when the surface clears, he'll have an answer to everything. Studiously avoids looking up at his own reflection in the mirrored cabinets. 

He's done some things he's not proud of, like standing by and letting Harvey beat a man with a phone book. But that man had helped kidnap homeless kids. And it had seemed like the only way they could get the intel they needed to save their lives. That, he can live with. 

This, he's not sure he can. 

If someone threw a punch at him right now, he wouldn't even get out of the way. He would just take it. Would deserve it. 

He doesn't know how he wound up this far gone and didn't fucking see it. _Or maybe he did_ a small voice says. Maybe he saw it and was an asshat to Oswald on purpose to try to keep him at a safe distance and ended up too goddamn close and too goddamn charmed despite his efforts, despite everything. 

Maybe it wasn't about hurting someone to ultimately do the right thing. Maybe this wasn't about justice and right and wrong, at the heart of it. 

Maybe it was about the way Oswald had been looking at him, like he'd give him the world or burn Gotham to the ground if Jim just said the word. And maybe in that moment, he'd wanted to. Wanted Oswald. Wanted him in a way that he couldn't pretend was just physical attraction, just a lapse in judgment. 

Maybe that had scared the shit out of him. 

Jesus fucking Christ.

He slams his drink down on the counter, earning a few sidelong glances from other men at the bar. He gives them his best conciliatory fake smile. And then he forces his gaze back to the mirror.

He can see Oswald in profile, halfway across the bar, talking to a man in a well-cut suit with a pompadour and an oily smile. Probably the dealer. 

Close enough that it would only be a few seconds running if he needs to take the guy out. Far away enough that he can't fucking hear what they're saying. Which is gonna drive him fucking insane. But he knows he can't move closer without looking suspicious, drawing attention. 

The man, the dealer, he's got big, strong hands. Which Jim notices because now the guy's shaking Oswald’s hand, then clapping him on the cheek. Laughing as he does it, probably angling for some kind of camaraderie. 

He knows Oswald will smile back. He’s a good actor. But as soon as the man looks away, one of the boys across the room distracting him, Oswald's face goes perfectly smooth, eyes flashing. Almost imperceptible tick of tension at his jaw.

Which most people won’t notice. The man certainly won’t, because Oswald’s tight smile is back in place like clockwork by the time he looks back at him. But Jim knows that face. Knows it likely means Oswald’s imagining how to stab the man in a way that would result the least amount of blood being spilled on his own suit. Because Jim's seen Maroni do the same goddamn thing as this guy.

Jim waits for the moral outrage, the revulsion to come with this realization.

But there's only anger, making his collar hot and his throat tight. His hands itch to grab the guy by the collar and clock him. He has no fucking _right_ to-- and Oswald shouldn't have to go through this--

But that's assault, he reminds himself. He can't deck a guy because he pissed him off. He hasn't done anything illegal, and Oswald may not have gotten enough from him to pin anything on him yet. And sure as shit won't if Jim makes a scene now.

He works his jaw, unclenching it. Sets his glass down slowly before he snaps it in half. 

Fuck. 

A few deep breaths. Maybe this thing between them-- maybe it’s two-way. Maybe the reason this all fucking terrifies him is that that willingness to do something stupid, something that rubs your pride the wrong way, something you fucking _know_ is a bad idea, but you want to do anyway, for them-- maybe that's not just Oswald. 

_Fuck._

He still has his head in his heads when he’s grabbed by the tie and pulled off his seat. He whirls to find it's Oswald. Who's apparently no longer talking to the dealer and is now intent on dragging him away the bar with a strength he didn't know he had. In the direction of the private booths. Ah. 

He could get Oswald hands off his tie if he really wanted to. But it makes for a good show. People will leave them alone to debrief now. Probably. And maybe he doesn’t really mind the manhandling. 

Oswald finally lets go of his tie, freeing both hands to shove him roughly into the booth. 

Which shouldn’t be attractive. So Jim ignores his racing pulse, shoves Oswald back instead, sending him falling onto the booth cushion. Oswald takes a moment to smooth down his jacket, but then he's grabbing Jim's collar to pull him down to his level. Ostensibly because the curtain's still open and so the booth’s not soundproof yet. “Your dealer took it upon himself to bring some of the drug tonight to give out as samples," Oswald says. _Jesus fucking Christ._ "I had to improvise.” He pauses, and it’s killing Jim. He hadn't actually seen the end of their exchange. Oswald didn't seem hurt, the club didn't seem to be reacting the way they would if someone had been stabbed, and yet-- “So I bought the whole supply," Oswald continues. Jim can only stare at him, gaping. Oswald rolls his eyes. "You're welcome.” 

“ _Thank you._ " Jim says, meeting Oswald's eyes, hoping his expression can get across how much he means it. Maybe a little praise, to get the thank you across? Oswald liked that sort of thing. He could do that. "You're a goddamn genius, you know that? I'm going to straddle your hips and kiss you now. If that’s ok?" Fucking Christ. The words all just tumble out together. "I-- I think we should give 'em a show,” he adds quickly. “To get them to leave us alone. I think I may have drawn some attention again when I was sitting at the bar.” 

“What happened to 'don't fucking touch me'?” Oswald’s voice is controlled, but just barely, and his eyes are cold. 

And okay, fair question. “We needed to have a fight.” 

There’s a throwaway comment on the tip of Jim’s tongue. Something about it being Os-wald's idea to have a fight in the first place, and really, what did he expect? 

But that’s not fair. 

He needs to say more than that right now. To explain. But he can’t. Can’t get it all out in a way that’s useful, because he’s never been good at getting his emotions out of his head, out to others like that. He can’t tell Oswald what he wants to hear, because the truth comes with ugly bits that are gonna rub his pride the wrong way, and Jim doesn’t know how to say it without it hurting. 

So he just leaves it at that, meets Oswald’s gaze. Hopes he can read in his face at least some of what’s going on in his head. 

Oswald stares back at him, face shrewd. Seconds crawl by and Oswald just keeps looking at him, eyes intent and searching. Long enough that Jim’s startled when Oswald opens his mouth, lips pausing on the outline of a word. But then he shuts it again without saying a thing, opting instead to haul Jim into his lap and kiss him soundly. 

Jim pulls away, breathless, just long enough to say, "May I?" gesturing to Oswald's neck, collarbone. 

"Of course." He can hear the eye roll in Oswald's voice. 

And then Jim's kissing down Oswald's neck, leaning back just enough to unbutton his shirt a bit, pressing bite-kisses to the hollow of his throat. Oswald moans then, just like Jim thought he would. 

Jim's moment of _fucking called it_ is cut short by the feeling of heat pooling in his belly. And between the two, it takes a moment to process that Oswald's saying something. 

“James.” A little breathless, but insistent. 

“Mm?” A hum of acknowledgment against Oswald’s skin. 

“Someone’s closed the curtain for us.” 

“Uh-huh.” That’s not a _stop_ or an _I changed my mind_ , not a key phrase that what’s left of his mind had been on high alert for. So he goes right back to biting along Oswald's collarbone without really processing it. 

A few seconds pass, punctuated by another moan from Oswald. 

And then Oswald’s talking again. Tone more commanding this time. “James, no one can see us right now. There's really no need to put on a show.” 

Oh. _Oh._

Fuck. 

Jim braces his hands on the cushioning of the booth, pushes himself up. Puts a bit more space between Oswald and him. But doesn't really want to move away entirely. And Oswald didn’t ask him to. Yet. 

He lifts his gaze, stares at Oswald. Still practically in his lap, legs braced against his thighs. Oswald stares back, doesn’t say anything. 

Jim sucks in a breath. Harder than it should be, ‘cause Oswald’s still too goddamn close and not close enough. “Anything else I should know?” 

"Well, this," Oswald says, pulling a small plastic bag out of his breast pocket using his handkerchief, "Should have the dealer's fingerprints all over it.” Which is fucking great news. Only Jim’s still very much distracted by the fact that even though Oswald’s leaned back a bit, he can still feel his breath on his neck. 

“Incidentally,” Oswald continues, tone conversational, “I also recorded a pretty incriminating sound byte on my phone. While I would advise using it as leverage to get that man to tell you about the manufacturer so you can bring down the _head_ of the operation, it could also feasibly be enough to put your man away for illegal distribution." 

Even after all the shit Jim said. Even after all of that. “Thank you.” Voice open, earnest, but it’s not enough. Jim doesn’t have the words to make it enough. “I mean it.” 

And then silence settles over them. 

Jim wants to kiss him again. But he doesn't. Oswald might let him, if he did. But it’s not fair to him. Not now. 

But he also can't look Oswald in the eye. He tries to look anywhere else; his gaze settles traitorously on Oswald's lips. 

"James, look at me." Tone brooking no argument. Jim's eyes snap back to Oswald's. "Our friendship is reliant on the continued existence of clear boundaries, and I don't know where those lie right now. Whatever you want from me, I will respect that. But I don't know what that is." 

Which is the nicest way of saying _make up your goddamn mind_ Jim's ever heard. But more importantly, it’s a chance to set things right. That’s more than he deserves, and he’ll be damned if he lets it pass him by. 

"I just-- I've been a fucking idiot. And a coward. I shouldn't have-- I had no right to--" And why did he think this was going to go well, exactly? Oswald’s the one who’s good with words, not him. He pauses, takes deep a breath. Tries to regroup. "What I said before-- it's not true. I didn’t mean any of it. Let me-- will you let me show you? Let me make it up to you?” 

There’s a crease of confusion at Oswald’s brow. "What do you mean?" 

Another deep breath. Which doesn't do a damn thing for Jim’s nerves. "I'd like to blow you." 

Oswald inhales sharply. "Here? Now?" 

"No time like the present.” A quick grin, and then his face turns serious again.

"God. _Please_." Oswald's voice practically a whine. 

Jim lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He's grinning now, probably like a complete idiot, and he can't find it in him to care. 

"Please what?" He just wants to be sure. That Oswald wants this. That they’re okay again. 

"Christ, James." Oswald arches up against him, and Jim can feel that he’s already getting hard. And that might make him breathe a little easier, knowing that’s a ‘yes’ to both, if not for the surge of arousal it sends through him, making his breath short. "You know damn well what." 

"Mm," he says, "I ah--" Oswald rocks up against him and he needs a few moments to remember how to form words again. "I think you're overestimating my powers of deduction here." 

"Blow me." Commanding tone that makes Jim weak at the knees. 

Jim shrugs off his jacket, starts on his tie. Gets the first few buttons of his dress shirt open, and then Oswald's reaching towards him, motioning to his face, his neck. "May I...?" 

"Let me get my shirt off first, yeah?" Jim says, grinning. "Then you can knock yourself out." He makes quick work of the rest of the buttons and then he's hauling his undershirt off, too, skin prickling with goosebumps in the cool air of the club. And then Oswald is trailing fingertips over his bottom lip, down his neck, over his breastbone. Tentative, touch feather-light. And it's a goddamn tease and _god_ , it feels good to have this, have him. Give himself over to it. 

"Is this ok?" Oswald asks, one hand still on Jim's clavicle, the other motioning to his torso. Jim swallows, nods. And then both hands are sliding down his sides, fingers ghosting over muscle and ribs. And then up his back, coming to rest on his shoulders. 

A slight increase in the pressure on his shoulders, a slight upward tilt to Oswald's mouth. Jim gets the idea. Grins, sinks to his knees, holding eye contact the whole time. 

Jim leans forwards, rests his hands on Oswald's knees. "Hands, mouth-- both are okay?" Oswald nods, so Jim runs his hands up the inside of his thighs. 

Oswald gasps when Jim cups him through his pants. Tangles his hand in Jim's hair, guides his head forward. A clear suggestion. 

Jim undoes his fly, mouths at him through his silk boxers. Any other time, he'd have some smartass comment on the tip of his tongue about _those_ , but right now the tip of his tongue is tracing the outline of Oswald's cock. And Oswald's making a strangled noise and pulling Jim's hair, and he's never been happier he grew out his crew cut, because the feel of it is a goddamn revelation. 

Oswald squirms when Jim pulls away and pulls down his boxers, but also loosens his grip on Jim. So he looks up to see if Oswald's still okay with everything, only to find him very flushed and biting his lip. _Christ._

"Soundproof, remember?" He says, just to see Oswald roll his eyes at him. 

"If you want to hear me, then get on with it." 

" _Someone's_ in a rush." 

" _Someone_ took their sweet time decided whether they were going to act on their desire to bang me." 

Jim goes slack-jawed with surprise. "When did you--" 

Oswald rolls his eyes. "Since after we had dinner." 

"I didn't even-- and before-- when you said you knew exactly how I--" 

"I keep telling you-- I'm clever. Now," Oswald says, smirking, "Why don't you put that pretty mouth of yours to better use, hm?" 

_Christ on a stick_. Because of course, even now, flushed, breath uneven, cock hard against his thigh, Oswald needs to push the envelope. Not that Jim's complaining. 

Jim digs his fingers into Oswald's hips, as much to steady himself as for leverage. He shouldn't feel so far in over his head here. It's not like this is the first time he's done this. First time he'd been sober for it, maybe. First time he'd known or cared what the last name of the guy on the receiving end was. But the muscle memory's still there. 

With sobriety comes more precision, he finds, rallying and wrapping one hand around the base, swirling his tongue around the tip. Oswald whines and pulls Jim's hair again, and Jim's already getting hard himself, and he thinks _the hell with it_ and takes him as deep as he can, and sucks. Oswald moans, pulls Jim's hard hair enough for his scalp to sting. 

A few more quick bobs of Jim's head, taking him in as far as he can and then almost pulling off entirely, and Oswald's hips are stuttering. Like he wants to buck them but he's holding back. Jim pulls off, meets Oswald's eyes. Grins. His voice is rough when he says, "You can fuck my face. I don't mind. Promise." 

"God, James--" Voice as wrecked as Jim feels. 

"Go on. I want you to." 

Oswald doesn't need to be told twice. He lets his head fall back against the booth, starts thrusting his hips up into Jim's mouth in earnest. And Jim just hollows his cheeks and takes it, barely notices the spit dripping down his chin, doesn't care that his voice is gonna be wrecked for the night. 

And then Oswald slows his pace, almost stops entirely. "James--" 

"Mm?" Just a hum of affirmation against Oswald’s skin. 

"I'm so close--" 

"Mm." When Jim doesn't move away, Oswald speeds up again, a frantic energy taking hold of him. 

Oswald's beautiful when he finally falls apart, eyes squeezed shut, mouth slightly open, a complete mess despite his fine suit. 

Jim swallows, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Oswald's eyes are soft, gaze unfocused as he watches him. And then he's pulling Jim up by his hair to kiss him, hard. And Jim can't hold out any longer. He pops open his fly and fists himself, moans when Oswald bites his lip. 

And then Oswald's breaking the kiss, gesturing to Jim's cock. "Allow me." Jim nods, granting permission, and then Oswald's swiping his thumb over the tip, slicking his hand with the precome there. 

"Christ, Oswald--" The feel of his hand wrapped around him is almost too much. Just a few deft strokes and he's spilling over Oswald's hand, a string of curses on his lips, vision overtaken by bursts of bright white. 

He slumps forward onto Oswald's chest, boneless in the wake of the afterglow. Oswald stiffens at first, but then his body relaxes under Jim and he brings a hand up to card through his hair. 

A few moments of silence, and Jim lets his eyes fall shut. And then Oswald says, "You didn't answer my question." 

"What?" His voice could be worse, probably, but he still sounds pretty hoarse. He disentangles himself reluctantly, leans back so he can see Oswald properly. Maybe it's just that he's still coming down, not firing on all cylinders again yet, but he can't think what Oswald is talking about. 

Oswald leans forward, raises his eyebrows pointedly. "Where are the fucking boundaries, James? Should I expect a blow job every time we trade favors from now on?" 

"What? Jesus, no. I-- you thought?" Jim's eyes widening in horror. "This isn't some kind of negotiation, it's not a fucking business arrangement--" 

"So what is it, then?" His voice is rising, but he doesn't push Jim out of his lap. "I've tried to be patient, tried to take your lead, but you're all over the place. What do you fucking _want_?" 

Jim takes a deep breath. He knows he's shit with words, but he has to get this right in one go. He has to. "I know it's not enough. But I'm sorry. I didn't know what I wanted, and I was an asshat. And then I did know. And I couldn't fucking handle it, because who I was wouldn't want that. 

"But I want this-- you-- that is what I want.” Voice painfully earnest as he says it, praying to god that Oswald can tell he means it, can believe him. “And I'm just going to have to fucking figure out how to make it work with-- well, with everything. Because this matters more, and I'm done pretending." 

Oswald just stares at him for a moment, mouth slightly open. But he recovers quickly, rolls his eyes. "It's about fucking time." 

And Jim can breathe again. "Are you free tomorrow?" 

"I can be." 

"Come back to mine. I can make breakfast tomorrow." Oswald pulls a face. "I make great pancakes," Jim adds defensively. 

Oswald raises an eyebrow. Which is either skepticism about his pancake-making abilities or about his overall intentions. Hard to say, really. 

"Or we could go home separately and go out for breakfast tomorrow." It's not just about sex. That's not what this is. "But I'll have you know, ten-year-olds don't pull their punches. So if my little brother would eat the ones I made at fifteen, I'd say with more than a decade of prac-tice since then, I'm pretty much a master at this point." But the original offer's still on the table. 

"I can get on board with pancakes," Oswald says, hand on Jim's knee. "But I'll have you know, I have a very refined pallet. If they aren't up to snuff, we're going out for crepes." 

"Deal," Jim says, entwining their fingers. 

He only catches a glimpse of Oswald's sharp grin before he's got ahold of Jim's hand and is up and pulling him headlong towards the exit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex scenes are an absolute bear for me to write, so I hope I did ok with this one. Also, guess who actually went and proofread/edited the whole chapter on a computer after writing 90% of it on my phone? So hopefully that made for a smoother read. Chapter titles were all titles of Artic Monkey songs (off Favourite Worst Nightmare).


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